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hut are ye, O pallid phantoms!
But the statues without breath, _ hat stand on the bridge overarching
The silent river of death?
Ljteh.so long an absence
At last we meet again: )oes the meeting give us pleasure,
Or does it give us pain?
?he tree of life has been shaken, And but few of us linger now,
like the Prophet's two or three berries In the top of the uppermost bough.
We cordially greet each other
In the old, familiar tone; S.nd we think, though we do not say it,
How old and gray he is grown I
We speak of a Merry Christmas
But each in his heart is thinking
We speak of friends and their fortunes,
Till the dead alone seem living,
Aad at last we hardly distinguish
/»nd a mist and shadow of sadness Steals over our merriest jests.
When Mazarvan the Magician,
Journeyed westward through Cathay,
Nothing heard he but the praises
But the lessening rumor ended
There the folk were talking only
So it happens with the poets:
Camaralzaman is famous
A Gentle boy, with soft and silken locks,
A dreamy boy, with brown and tender
A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,
And towers that touch imaginary
A fearless rider on his father's knee,
At the Round Table of the nursery,
There will be other towers for thee to build;
There will be other steeds for thee to ride
There will be other legends, and all filled
With greater marvels and more glorified.
Build on, and make thy castle3 high and fair,
Rising and reaching upward to the
Listen to voices in the upper air,
Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries.
From the outskirts of the town,
Where of old the mile-stone stood, Now a stranger, looking down I behold the shadowy crown Of the dark and haunted wood.
Is it changed, or am I changed?
Ah! the oaks are fresh and green. But the friends with whom I ranged Through their thickets are estranged
By the years that intervene.
Bright as ever flows the sea,
Bright as ever shines the sun,
I HAVE a vague remembrance
In some ancient Spanish legend
It was when brave King Sanchez
Was before Zamora slain, And his great besieging army
Lay encamped upon the plain.
Don Diego de Ordonez
Sallied forth in front of all, And shouted loud his challenge
To the warders on the wall.
All the people of Zamora,
Both the born and the unborn,
As traitors did he challenge
The living, in their houses,
And the waters of their rivers,
And their wine, and oil, and bread!
There is a greater army,
That besets us round with strife, A starving, numberless army,
At all the gates of life.
The poverty-stricken millions
Who challenge our wine and bread,
And impeach us all as traitors,
And whenever I sit at the banquet,
Amid the mirth and the music
And hollow and haggard faces
Look into the lighted hall, And wasted hands are extended
To catch the crumbs that fall.
For within there is light and plenty,
And odors fill the air; But without there is cold and darkness,
And hunger and despair.
And there in the camp of famine,
In wind and cold and rain, Christ, the great Lord of the army,
Lies dead upon the plain!
THE BROOK AND THE WAVE.
The brooklet came from the mountain,
As sang the bard of old, Running with feet of silver
Over the sands of gold!
Far away in the briny ocean
Now singing along the sea-beach,
And the brooklet has found the. billow,
And has filled with its freshness anc sweetness That turbulent, bitter heart!
FROM THE SPANISH CANCIONEROS.
Eves so tristful, eyes so tristful,
In this life of labor endless
Some day, some day,
If Love in thee
Come, O Death, so silent flying
Lest the sweet delight of dying
For thy sure approach perceiving
Unto him who finds thee hateful,
Glove of black in white hand bare,
When the Summer fields are mown, When the birds are fledged and flown,
And the dry leaves strew the path; With the falling of the snow, With the cawing of the crow, Once again the fields we mow
And gather in the aftermath.
Not the sweet, new grass with flowers Is this harvesting of ours;
Not the upland clover bloom; But the rowen mixed with weeds, Tangled tufts from marsh and meads, Where the poppy drops its seeds
In the silence and the gloom.
OR THE POET'S AFTERTHOUGHT.
Have I dreamed 1 or was it real,
When to marches hymeneal
What! are these the guests whose glances
These the wild, bewildering fancies,
Ah! how cold are their caresses!
Pallid cheeks, and haggard bosoms! Spectral gleam their snow-white dresses, And from loose, dishevelled tresses
Fall the hyacinthine blossoms!
O my songs! whose winsome measures Filled my heart with secret rapture!
Children of my golden leisures!
Must even your delights and pleasures Fade and perish with the capture?
Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous,
When they came to me unbidden;
Must each noble aspiration Come at last to this conclusion, Jarring discord, wild confusion,
Not with steeper fall nor faster,
Not through brighter realms nor vaster,
In swift ruin and disaster,
Sweet Pandora ! dear Pandora!
Why did mighty Jove create thee Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora, Beautiful as young Aurora,
If to win thee is to hate thee?
No, not hate thee! for this feeling
Is but passionate appealing,
A prophetic whisper stealing
Him whom thou dost once enamor,
Thou, beloved, never leavest;
Weary hearts by thee are lifted,
Struggling souls by thee are strengthened,
Clouds of fear asunder rifted,
Therefore art thou ever dearer,
For thou makest each mystery clearer, And the unattained seems nearer,
When thou fillest my heart with fever!
Muse of all the Gifts and Graces! .
Though the fields around us wither, There are ampler realms and spaces, Where no foot has left its traces:
Let us turn and wander thither!
TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN.
THE WAYSIDE INN.
Oxr. Autumn night, in Sudbury town,
Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves
As ancient is this hostelry
As any in the land may be,
Built in the old Colonial day,
When men lived in a grander way,
With ampler hospitality;
A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall,
Now somewhat fallen to decay,
With weather-stains upon the wall,
And stairways worn, and crazy doors,
And creaking and uneven floors.
And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall.
A region of repose it seems,
But noon and night, the panting teams
Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode
And through the ancient oaks o'eihead
But from the parlor of the inn
A pleasant murmur smote the ear,
Like water rushing through a weir:
Oft interrupted by the din
Of laughter and of loud applause,
And, in each intervening pause,
The music of a violin.
The fire-light, shedding over all
The splendor of its ruddy glow,
Filled the whole parlor large and low;
It gleamed on wainscot and on wall,
It touched with more than wonted grace
Fair Princess Mary's pictured face;
It bronzed the rafters overhead,
On the old spinet's ivory keys
It played inaudible melodies,
It crowned the sombre clock with flame,
The hands, the hours, the maker's name,
And painted with a livelier red
The Landlord's coat-of-arms again;
And, flashing on the window-pane,
Emblazoned with its light and shade
The jovial rhymes, that still remain,
Writ near a century ago,
By the great Major Molineaux,
Whom Hawthorne has immortal made.
Before the blazing fire of wood
Around the fireside at their ease
Each had his tale to tell, and each
But first the Landlord will I trace;
And over this, no longer bright,
A youth was there, of quiet ways,
And yet a lover of his own;
And yet a friend of solitude;
A man of such a genial mood
Th heart of all things he embraced,
And yet of such fastidious taste,
He never found the best too good.
Books were his passion and delight,
And in his upper room at home
Stood many a rare and sumptuous tome,
In vellum bound, with gold bedight,
Great volumes garmented in white,
Recalling Florence, Pisa, Rome.
He loved the twilight that surrounds
The border-land of old romance;
Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance,
And banner waves, and trumpet sounds,
And ladies ride with hawk on wrist,
And mighty warriors sweep along,
Magnified by the purple mist,
The dusk of centuries and of song.
The chronicles of Charlemagne,
Of Merlin and the Mort d'Arthure,
Mingled together in his brain
With tales of Flores and Blanchefleur,
Sir Ferumbras, Sir Eglamour,
Sir Launcelot, Sir Morgadour,
Sir Guy, Sir Bevis, Sir Gawain.
A young Sicilian, too, was there;
As sea-shells, when he smiled or spoke;
Level and pointed at the tip,